


The Wolves In Winterfell

by HowlinWolf



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Child Death, Dark Jon Snow, Dark Sansa, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Jon Snow is King in the North, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon Snow knows nothing, My First AO3 Post, My First Fanfic, My First Work in This Fandom, Past Sexual Assault, Post-Canon, Rape Recovery, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-10 20:31:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8938099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HowlinWolf/pseuds/HowlinWolf
Summary: Jon Snow and Sansa Stark are back home in Winterfell, but the ghosts of years upon years of struggle, tragedy, and loss still haunt them. They learn how much they need each other, and how much they mean to each other, as they learn to open up to each other.





	1. Bittersweet Homecoming, Pt. 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is only my 1st attempt at writing fanfiction; please be kind if you want to review/comment. The fic starts the night after the Battle Of The Bastards, right after Sansa feeds Ramsay to his dogs, and continues from there. I hope you enjoy, dear reader!

Sansa kept striding away from the kennel. Ramsay's screams had stopped mere moments before, and she could still hear the dogs eating at him, growling over a leg or an arm. Jon had told her of how it felt to kill someone, but his opinion was skewed by his obsession with honor and duty. He had not enjoyed hanging his brothers on the Night's Watch; he never talked about it, except before her coming down here. But she had enjoyed watching this monster be ravaged by his own dogs. She felt right. It did not make up for the years of hell she had went through since first leaving Winterfell, but in this moment, still wounded and sore from Ramsay's onslaughts on her, she felt an empowering rush of vindication.

 

As Sansa approached the castle door, one of the Knights of the Vale who were standing de facto guard, opened the door for her. As she entered, the guard said, "Lady Sansa, Lord Snow has requested your presence in the Great Hall."

"Thank you", she responded, and made her way to the Great Hall.

She made the long walk, feeling at once conflicting senses of deep fondness, and trepidation. She did love Jon, deeply, but right now, she wasn't sure if she wanted to see him. She wasn't annoyed with him; she felt...guilty. The near-disaster of the day's battle weighed heavily on her.

And so did his loss.

 

Sansa approached the Great Hall, and stopped as she saw Jon's bunned black hair seated at the fireplace. 

"You summoned me?"

"Yeah," he said, slightly awkwardly, as he got up. "Do you like mead?" She nodded her head in response. Jon poured two glasses from a table adjacent to the fireplace, as Sansa sat down at a chair next to Jon's. He handed her a cup, and as she thanked him, she looked at him, trying to read his face, searching for any hint of anger. If there was, he was good at hiding it. His sad-set eyes didn't leave hers, and his lips were slightly upturned in a sympathetic half-smile.

 

_Don't look at me like that; be angry with me. Yell at me, tell me how stupid I was. You should; you have every right to._

 

They sat in silence for a long while, sipping the honey wine, and lost in their own thoughts in the fire's light, bringing themselves back into reality by glancing at each other.

"What's wrong, San?"

She realized she was staring at him, so she turned to the fireplace.

"Why'd you summon me here?"

"I wanted to see you.” His face reddened slightly. “Make sure you're alright."

She smiled at him. As Sansa took a gulp of the mead, Jon watched her; saw a tired sadness in her eyes. He could not blame her. Today was…harrowing, to say the least, for both of them. Then, melancholia washed over her her face as she looked at him again. “I’m so sorry, Jon.”

"For what?"

"For everything. Everything that happened today was my fault."

He just stared at her, letting her speak.

“I didn’t tell you about the Vale army. I let you go in knowing that you all might be butchered. And I made you give up on—“ She stopped, collecting herself to finish her sentence before she started crying.

"--I didn't even try to save Rickon, or let you save him; I just assumed he was dead. I didn’t even try to save him.”

"Sansa, look at me.” He grasped her hand, and she raised her brimming eyes to his.

"I should've attempted a reconnaissance before we got to Winterfell, or charged faster for him. RIckon is on me.” As she started to shake her head, he said “SANSA, look at me. It is not your fault. No one will blame you for Rickon.” He tried to reassure her with a smile. “And we won today. We won. We're back home, San. Ramsay can't hurt you anymore; I know you just saw to that."

“I thought that he had already killed—“

“You made a guess based on what you knew of him. That doesn’t make you a murderess.”

“Then what does it make me?”

“It makes you a survivor.”

“With our brother’s blood on my hands.”

"Sansa...it's not your burden to bear."

She just looked at him. After a pause, she said, "...And now, we're the only ones left, aren't we?"

"What?"

"We're the only ones left, Jon. You, and me. Just you and me."

Jon just looked at her, not saying anything, but wondering what she was getting at.

"There's no one else in our family. No more Starks left in the world.”

"They might very well be--"

”They are..." Sansa sighed. She started to ease a little, as Jon still held her hand.

"...I wasn't even that close to Rickon, and, when I see him in there, I think of all of them. But I think of...father the most." She looked at him, and the sorrowful look on her face made Jon's heart break.

"I saw it, you know?" She continued. "I was there, when they cut his head off."

Jon didn't know what to say to her. He wanted to comfort her, but didn't know how, in the moment. "That--must have been...horrible."

"They called him a traitor. That monster Joffrey had his head cut off, and made me fucking look at it! That bastard..."

"Literally, from what I've heard," said Jon. Sansa chuckled for the 1st time since they were children.

"Wouldn't surprise me," she said.

"When a raven brought word of what happened to father, I nearly ran away from the Night's Watch. I tried to do it."

Sansa looked puzzled; Jon was as obsessed with honor as father had been, maybe more so. “They would've--"

"--killed me, I know. But he was my father, same as yours. I would've risked it for him. I wanted to." He hung his head low, and Sansa moved her chair right next to his, and embraced the slouching, brooding man.

"They eventually did kill me, tho."

"What?"

"They killed me, San."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you want to know?"

She let go of him and sat back down.

"It's hard to explain; the only way to really explain is to show you. But, it will shock you."

"I've likely seen worse; just show me."

He started to unbutton his shirt; as he did; she started to unconsciously cock an eyebrow. Then his shirt came off, and she saw the scars. They were still slightly open and bright red, and deep. They dug into his left lung, and rib, and his heart.

If Jon thought Sansa's ivory skin couldn't get any whiter, it did. Sansa blanched at the sight; for a moment, she couldn't breathe. She looked at the scars, then to Jon, and back again. She got up, still trying to breathe, her eyes bulging out of their sockets.

"Who--did this??"

"Five of my brothers in the Watch."

She gasped, and looked from his scars and into his eyes. As the full meaning of what Jon just said hit her, she searched his face, taking in every facet and feature, as if she'd never see him again. The Night's Watch, men he had regarded as friends, brothers, had viciously murdered him...even though he was standing here, he had died, just like the rest of them...taken her last brother, her bastard protector away from her...she would never have seen him again...

Her breathing heavy and fast, and tears once again welling into her eyes, she asked "How are you here?"

"The Red Woman brought me back," he said simply.

After a moment, she threw her arms around him, hugging him as hard as she could, nuzzling her head against his, feeling how warm he was, knowing that he was alive, and clinging onto him. She was sobbing uncontrollably now, tears free-falling from her face. Just as Sansa's hand met the exit wounds on his back, Jon wrapped his arms around Sansa, letting her cry into his shoulder. He did not know the entirety of what Sansa had endured, but he knew he would go to any length to protect her. And Sansa held onto him for as long as she could.


	2. Bittersweet Homecoming, Pt. 2

Sansa couldn't sleep. She lay awake on her bed for almost an hour, but felt like a eternity. The things she told Jon that night about what she went through, made her inside stir and have an unexpected swirl of thoughts and emotions that she had not anticipated. She was relieved to have someone to confide in; someone else who knew and understood her. It was such a relief to have someone to talk to, and to grieve their family with.

 

When Jon showed his scars and told her what his brothers of the Night's Watch did, she couldn't help but cry. Even now, sitting by the burning fireplace, tears welled in her eyes thinking of what they had done to him. The thought of Jon dying was too much for her to bear. Thinking about Jon dead made her feel alone. She had been more than indifferent and distant from him when they were children, and often somewhat cruel. But she had only wanted the approval of her mother, and to be a "decent" lady. In that world, the world of her mother, a bastard like Jon had no place. How foolish she had been, blinded by the stories of knights and princesses her septa taught her.

 

She was afraid of showing to Jon her scars and bruises, afraid that he would be disgusted and never look at her face again. She was insecure, but Jon was gentle and comprehensive. He told her to only show her scars when she was ready. Jon was too good to her. She thought that she didn't deserve that from him when she had been so bad to him. She told him how cruel she had been to him, and how deeply sorry she was. That she wanted him to forgive her for everything. His brash dismissal of it was probably supposed to make her feel better. But, even though he assured her, she wanted, and needed, his forgiveness. Only then, she would feel a little better. And then he forgave her. And the knowledge that Jon was the last person she had to go for help, made her afraid. Afraid of his rejection, even though she wouldn't blame him if she did. If she were him, that was what she would have done. But here he was, fighting because of her and for their home and family, but mostly for her, when the only thing he wanted was to go south and have a time for himself.

 

She couldn't stop thinking about him punching Ramsay, almost killing him, only stopping when he felt her presence watching him. She thought that he looked a little ashamed for her to see him in that state. That he didn't wanted her to see him like that. Like a monster punching another monster. But even in that moment, he understood that she was the only one who should give Ramsay his fate. She didn't know what to feel in that moment. Jon was too good for her. He had welcomed her at the Castle Black with open arms when she feared his rejection. He made her feel loved, and cared for. Even now, just thinking about it, she could still feel the warmth of his embrace and the way he held her in his arms when they meet. It made her melt inside. It was so sweet to see him once again. They had some differences at first, and fought and bickered almost of the time. But even though, she felt that he cared for her.

 

She remembered him talking about the fiery redhead wildling, Ygritte. She was his first lover and the woman that he almost gave all of his heart to. He broke his vows with the Night's Watch because of her. But then, he had to choose the Night's Watch over her, and because of it, she tried to kill him, shooting arrows into him. He had upset and broken her heart. Sansa wondered, If he really loved Ygritte, why didn't he stay with her? Did he regret for breaking his vows because of her? Why had he chosen the men he called brothers, who later would betray him, over the woman he said he loved? Perhaps because of honor? This would be him. So honorable, like father was. He looked more brooding and his eyes got sadder than normal, when he talked about Ygritte.  He had lost words and the look of sorrow in his eyes made Sansa break a little.  Sansa couldn’t help being a little envious towards this woman for almost having a man's love. A brave and gentle one. As a child, all Sansa dreamed was being a beloved wife and mother, but all she gained was empty words of love of a fake prince and lord.

 

Sansa got out of bed, and silently walked at the hall to the Lords chambers. The one she and Jon fought over about who deserved to have the chambers. She gained the argument, or Jon was too tired of fighting with her,  and then the chambers began to be his. Sansa walked the hall in silence. She reached the master chamber and pushed the door open as silently as possibly, but it creaked loudly all the same. She heard a rustling of sheets, and saw Jon turning towards her. He sat up and looked at her, waiting for her to come. She closed the door behind her and went to the bed where Jon was waiting, and climbed on the bed next to him.

 

"Can't sleep?" Jon asked softly. 

"No" she sighed. "Did I wake you?" 

"No, I can't sleep too" he gives her a little smile. "Want to talk about what is keeping you awake?" 

 

She sighed and snuggled a little more on the bed. "I-it's just that I can't sleep alone...I feel that someone, they, might come back, you know?" she whispered, with her voice crackling slightly.

 

She looked so vulnerable, and she hated it. She wanted to be stronger than this; she didn't want Jon to see her like that.

 

Jon came a little closer and put his hand on her shoulders. "It's ok, San. They are not here anymore. He is not here anymore. And If he even come back, I'll be here and I will protect you!"

 

Tears started to roll down Sansa's cheeks, as she looked in Jon's eyes. "Do you promise? Do you really mean it?"

 

He gave her a reassuring, warm smile. "You know I mean it, Sans! I would bring Ramsay back just to punch him all over again. If Joffrey, or Cersei, or Littlefinger came to Winterfell, I'd stop them before they could ever hurt you again." She was openly sobbing now. As she buried her face in his shoulder, he held her close and shush her with comforting words. She hadn't realized, or remembered, how cold Winterfell could be. She snuggled closer to Jon while he adjusted the blanket over them. She didn't think or cared about the closeness between them, or their legs intertwined under the blanket. Jon was so warm. It was comforting. She often would repulse from Joffrey's and Ramsay's contacts. But where Jofrrey was ruthless and Ramsay rough, Jon was gentle, and caring. And it made her heart melt.


	3. Warm Bed In Winter

Sansa awoke the next morning in Jon's arms, not quite sure if she was still asleep, but feeling a deep sense of rest and ease that she had not known since she had been a little girl. Even then, she had been too immature and spiteful to really appreciate the feeling of being home, and happy. She wanted to enjoy the ambrosial joy of home and hearth.

And the smells of musk, oak and pine, and subtle traces of something else filling her nose.

She slowly opened her eyes, still half-asleep, and tilted her head upward, seeing Jon's scruffy face, mouth closed, deep in sleep, but not snoring. Just asleep, with both arms around her back in a loose, sleeping embrace.

 

_He wants to protect me, even in his sleep._

 

Sansa buried her face back into his shoulder, and made her hold on his shoulders firmer, without squeezing, not wanting to wake him up. She tightened her legs around the leg they were wrapped around, and she pulled his sleeping body closer to hers, holding on to him tightly, wanting to stay here in this moment as long as she could. She dreaded the thought that now, and the events of yesterday's battle had all been a dream she was still in, and didn't want to wake up if it was.

She remembered Jon's scars, and what the traitors had done to him, and hugged him even harder. In a split second, she recognized the other odors that were mixed with the musky scents coming off of Jon; salty sweat and...blood?

As Sansa's face was still buried in Jon's shoulder, she looked up at him. She then looked at the scars in and around his heart. She lowered her head to the deepest scar, the one on his heart, and kissed it, before nuzzling him again. 

 

_No one will take you from me again._

 

Without entirely thinking, Sansa leaned her head down again, closed her eyes, and placed a longer, slower kiss on the scar. Then, his shoulder. Then, the side of his neck. She raised her head up, lifted her back somewhat, and looked at Jon. The small of her back was still in searing pain from Ramsay’s assaults. But Jon was not Ramsay. She still wasn't even sure of herself, or Jon, or even what she knew of love. She didn't know what she felt, or even why. He was her father's son. And she knew from experience that there were no heroes anymore. _There is one._

She gently kissed his lips, not wanting to wake him, and placed a long, warm, lingering kiss on his pale forehead, before once more nuzzling his shoulder and neck.

 

_No one will take you from me again, Jon. No one._

 

Jon started to stir. She kept her face buried in his shoulder, pretending to be asleep, as he looked at her.

“San?” he whispered. She raised her head and gave him a sleepy-eyed smile. “Yes…?”

“Comfortable?”

“Enough to be asleep, until just now…” She laid her head back down on his shoulder. “I don’t think I even remembered what it meant to sleep at home.”

“At the Wall, we slept on these horrible cots made of wood with straw on them. We’d wake up thinking a giant stick was inside our backs, and at least one of our limbs had died.”

Sansa chuckled somewhat, then she flinched. Jon’s hand had moved to a still-tender bruise on her back, and she stung.

She rolled off of him. Without any words, in fear of embarrassment, she got off the bed and was out the door, before Jon could ask what the matter was.

 

Later that afternoon, Jon was standing at the castle gates of Winterfell, watching Melisandre ride away, a billowing red streak against the snow. He felt resolute, but listless; not entirely certain of what the future held for him. He was home, but was uncertain of what to do next. He didn’t feel like a victor, a valiant hero to be sung about. He had the sensation of standing on loose snow rather than solid rock, and he knew an avalanche was quickly approaching.

A thought went into his mind that he had not remembered for months. Sansa was brushing out Lady’s coat and singing to herself “You know nothing, Jon Snow…”

Sansa approached him and stood next to him. He noticed her, but she was watching the Red Woman. She had been distant all morning, and he did not know why. He did not want her to be distant; to hide from him, or think she had to. He turned back, and looked for something to say. He had always found himself at a loss for words with her.

“…I’m having the Lord’s Chamber prepared for you.”

“You should take it.”

He shook his head slightly. “I’m not a Stark.”

Sansa just looked at him, almost pityingly. “You are to me.”

“You’re the lady of Winterfell,” Jon sighed in his resolve. “You deserve it; we’re standing here because of you.” He looked at her. “The battle was lost until the Knights of the Vale rode in; they came because of you.”

Sansa heard his words, but didn’t entirely absorb them. She still felt like a traitor; a murderess. _I’m not the victor. I hurt you deeper than the Night’s Watch._ But she simply nodded her head.

“You told me Lord Baelish sold you to the Boltons?”

“He did.”

“And you trust him?” He looked at her.

“Only a fool would trust Littlefinger.”

She brought herself to look him in the eye. “I should’ve told you about him, about the Knights of the Vale…I’m sorry.”

Jon approached her before she was finished. He looked her in the eye, wanting to get through to her. “We need to trust each other.” After a moment, Sansa nodded. Jon continued, “We can’t fight a war amongst ourselves; we have…so many enemies now.” He looked at her eyes, and she his, searching each other’s faces. His eyes went from her eyes, to her deep red hair, to her lips, at once noticing again how lovely she was, and chastising himself for thinking he might want her. He reminded himself of duty before desire.

Sansa looked at Jon’s lips, and just as she decided to commit, he bent her head down and placed a long, tender kiss on her forehead. She accepted the gesture, but was disappointed nonetheless.

 

_Oh, Jon, please, just KISS me, while we’re here like this._

 

As Jon turned to leave, Sansa tried to find something to say to keep him here, with her. “Jon.” He turned. “A raven came from the citadel today. A white raven.”  
They both understood what that meant. “Winter is here…”she sighed. Jon just broke out in a big grin. Well, father always promised didn’t he?”


	4. Home & Hearths

Sansa sat at the Godswood, lost in her own thoughts and memories. She had come here every day as a little girl, praying to be taken somewhere else, anywhere else, but those days were gone. She felt comfort here, alone, wrapped in her wolf and bear furs, warm amidst the winter winds. All of her thoughts eventually led to Jon, whether she wished it or not, and she did. 

She savored the smell of the woods, because it was his scent. She thought of that morning, of her holding, near-clinging on to him, of kissing his scars and face while he was asleep. She had taken a delight from it, and wished he had been awake, and a smile crossed her lips as she remembered the way Jon had looked at her on the Winterfell gate. The longing in his face had echoed her own, and she had known in that moment that he wished the same as her. How very like him, to take so much from father.

 

_Father._

 

She thought of the gruff, stern, wise patriarch of what used to be House Stark. He had been eternally wise, but trusting too much in other men; trusting that their sense of justice and heroism was as strong as his. That other men were selfless, and honest. That they were heroes.

 

_There is one_ , she thought again. _What would you think if you were here, Father?_

 

She thought of her mother, Catelyn. She still missed her mother terribly, but no longer desired the fantasies of Cat’s stories; of beautiful, chivalrous knights and immense palaces. She now knew what that world looked like, and it was nowhere near as beautiful as Mother had described.

She wished Mother had treated Jon better, or herself for that matter. They had made his childhood miserable, for he was a bastard. _Just like Alayne._

Her thoughts went back to that morning, the sweet smell coming off of Jon, how hard she had clung to him, the way his face looked while he was asleep, the fervent way she had kissed him again and again…

 

She heard soft footsteps approaching, and opened her eyes. They were almost inaudible, but she had spent enough time with the man to know and hear his stride.

“Forgive me, my lady, if you’re in prayer.”

Littlefinger’s voice still made her cringe, even with the most innocuous inquiries. She still needed to be careful with him, though.

“I’m done with all of that.” She wrapped her cloak tighter around herself. With him, she always felt naked; there was no inch of her body he hadn’t already explored, and the memories of him licking and writhing on her, like the snake he was, still made her nauseous even after Ramsay’s assaults. She stood up to leave. “I suspect you already knew that."

“I had my suspicions.”

She still did not look at him. “Always the smartest man wherever you are.”

“I simply know people inside and out.” He looked at her, and she started to walk past him, but he blocked her. The hairs on the back of Sansa’s neck started to stand up.

“What do you want?”

“I thought you knew what I wanted.”

She shrugged. “I was wrong.”

“No, you weren’t.”

Sansa started, wondering if she should run right now, and not knowing why she resisted the urge to. She knew she still needed him, and hated it. She did not want to hear another word from him, but his slithery voice continued as he approached her.

“Every time I’m faced with a decision, I close my eyes and see the same picture. Whenever I consider an action, I ask myself: will this action help to make this picture a reality?”

He stepped closer, but she stood firm as he continued. “Pull it out of my mind…and into the world? And I only act if the answer is yes. A picture of me, on the Iron Throne, and you by my side.”

As he leaned in, she put her hand up to hold him off. “It’s a pretty picture.” With that, she brushed past him, needing to get away.

He called after her, but she did not stop. “News of this battle will spread quickly throughout the Seven Kingdoms. I’ve declared for House Stark for all to hear.”

“You’ve declared for other Houses before, Lord Baelish, but you’ve always served yourself.”

“The past is gone for good. You can sit here and mourn its departure, or you can prepare for the future. You, my love, are the future of House Stark. Who should the North rally behind? A true born daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark born here, in Winterfell, or a motherless southborn bastard?”

 

Sansa’s mind was racing, looking for ways to invert his schemes, as she strode in fuming with indignation past the castle, towards the battlefield. She knew that Littlefinger was not a man to underestimate, and certainly not to make enemies out of, nor one to keep too close, or trust when offering alliance, support, or friendship. If she wasn’t smart, he just might ruin her.

She knew what he wanted; he wanted her. Her political power, and her body. The thought of him on top of her, or the thought of his tongue down her throat one more time, were as horrifying as Ramsay, if not as violent. She would not lift a finger for him, nor be his little Catelyn bitch.

Sansa had to stop him. Keep him at arms’ length, if need be, but stop him.

And she knew exactly how. She didn’t know if it was an option, or even if she was thinking rationally about it. But, it would be everything she had always wanted.

 

She found him where she knew he would be. He was watching over the funeral pyres of yesterday’s war dead. There were too many bodies to properly bury, so they had spread the remaining cadavers around the mountainous stacks of human and corpses, and were now setting fire to them there. She had hoped to approach him quietly, but the smell made her retch, and wheeze.

“Smells like a right rose, doesn’t it?” Said Ser Davos, as he lowered his torch to a dead horse, waiting until it properly started to burn. She moved closer to Jon. The fire spread, but slowly.

“See, I know you’re one for duty and honor, but this many bodies is going to take hours to burn, and I’d rather be prepared for tonight’s feast than stand here watching bodies rot faster than they burn,” said Ser Davos to Jon.

“Not to mention the fucking smell,” Sansa concurred. She grasped his gloved hand, and gave it a tug, and seeing their point, he turned and started the walk to the gates. 

As the smoke and the flames increased behind them, Sansa was looking for the right thing to say to Jon.

“Jon, I know that you nearly lost yesterday.” He looked at her. “And I know that that’s partly on me.” Jon started to roll his eyes. “San, you can’t hold that—“  
“BUT, but, you won. Don’t let any of the officious, self-interested lords try to run you over tonight. They refused to help, and we still won. Don’t forget that.” He nodded as they continued walking, but she saw from the downcast in his eyes that that didn’t mean as much.

“You fought, and you won. You said, on the Wall, that you had fought, and you had lost.” She grabbed his arm, and spun to right in front of him. “You fought now, and you won. Don’t think otherwise. Don’t think about them.” She cocked her head towards the burning hills of corpses. She put her right hand on his heart. “And don’t think about this.” She stepped right to his face. Their eyes locked, and she knew she had his full attention. “Think of home.” She leaned to his ear, and whispered, “Think of me.” She brought her face in front of his, and stared once again into his deep, bottomless black eyes, and she knew he had heard her. A smile cracked the side of her lips, and she turned posthaste, making her own way to the castle, knowing they were watching her.

Davos looked at Jon. “What the fuck was that about?”


	5. I Don't Know Where I'm Going From Here, But I Promise It Won't Be Boring.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to the memory of the Starman, David Bowie (Jan. 8th, 1947-Jan. 10th, 2016)

Sansa quickly got her fur coat that she had made; as bitter as she still was at the men she would soon see, she had learned well and good by now the importance of appearance. She laid it down the bed, with the Stark wolf symbol face-front, in an almost reverential manner. She had no maidens in the room; she had insisted on dressing herself since returning home. She put her dress on, and fell into it, being careful so as not to irritate her skin too much. She looked at the bruises on her forearm, and looked behind her to the mirror, having her dress just slack enough to see the cuts and bruises, then looked down at her back to see what she could. They were healing, but had been deep enough to last. She wondered if many of them would scar. At least she no longer worried about being too sore to get up.

Sansa put on the Stark robe, tied the knot around her neck to keep the coat in its place, and walked out the door, seeing Jon approaching her room. He held out his hand as he approached her.

“Will you—join me?”  
She could barely hide the smile whenever he stuttered talking to her, just like he could barely hide a blush.

As they approached the door to the Great Hall with Ser Davos trailing, Sansa said, “Jon, don’t let any of these men  try to justify their absence from the battle. You saved the North from a monster. You’re the Lord of Winter”

“I appreciate the support, Sans, but I’m still a bastard. And you are still the only true child left.”

 

_Why must you be so hard on yourself?_

 

“Which is exactly why I’m here.” She looked at the beaten expression on Jon’s face and his sad eyes; he looked like a man resolved to a bad fate. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Ser Davos cleared his throat audibly for their attention as he opened the door. “M’Lord; M’Lady.” With that, they entered, and all took their seats at the Lords’ Table.

 

~~**~~

 

Lyanna Mormont stood up, and when the little, brash spitfire spoke, the Hall shut up as her voice carried the room.

“Your son was butchered at the Red Wedding, Lord Manderly.” She narrowed her eyes in disgust. “But you refused the call.” She turned to her right. “You swore allegiance to House Stark, Lord Glover.” She glanced the paunchy, balding, pathetic-looking man over. “But you refused the call.” She looked straight in front of her. “And you. Lord Cerwyn. Your father was skinned alive by Ramsay Bolton. Still, you refused the call.” She then turned to Jon and Sansa at the head table. “But House Mormont remembers! The North remembers! We know no King, but the King in the North, whose name is Stark!”

Sansa couldn’t help but smile.

Lyanna continued, “I don’t care if he’s a bastard. Ned Stark’s blood runs through his veins. He’s my King. And he’ll be my King from this day until his last.” Lyanna sat down, and glanced at the older male Lords around her, daring them with her eyes to do likewise or otherwise. Sansa looked at Jon, who looked anxious, like he expected something bad to happen. Lord Manderly stood up.

“Lady Mormont speaks harshly…and truly. My son died for Robb Stark, the Young Wolf. I didn’t think we’d find another King in my lifetime. I didn’t commit my men to your cause, because I didn’t want more Manderlys dying for nothing. But, I was wrong! Jon Snow avenged the Red Wedding! He is the White Wolf!” He yanked his sword from its sheath, and knelt to Jon. “The King in the North!” Lord Glover stood.

“I did not fight beside you on the battlefield, and I will regret that until my dying day. A man can only admit when he was wrong, and ask forgiveness.”

Sansa turned to Jon, and as he said “There’s nothing to forgive, my Lord.”, she remembered him saying that to her at Castle Black.

“There will be more fights to come. House Glover will stand behind House Stark, as we have for a thousand years! And I will stand behind Jon Snow…” He unsheathed his sword, and shouted “The King in the North!”

The entire Hall erupted as men all around pulled their swords out and raised them to Jon, pledging as one to “THE KING IN THE NORTH!” Ser Davos stood up, and Lyanna stood, and both joined in. Sansa was already beaming as Jon looked to her, as if for reassurance. He smiled with one side of his lips first, the way she found more handsome every time he smiled. But, as he turned back to the crowd, she caught sight of Littlefinger, staring at her. She did not know what what on his mind, though she had some ideas. Whatever his intent was, she would do everything she could, go to any and all lengths, to keep him as far away from Jon as she possibly could.

 

~~**~~

 

When Sansa was disrobing after the feast, she noticed in the mirror the vase on the stand behind her. It had come, she had been told, from a land beyond Essos. It had beautiful, exotic artwork on it, that was broken and interjected by gold filling its cracks. The story she had been told about the vase was that, in the faraway land, if things were broken, they would fix them by sealing the pieces with melted gold.

 

_They made it stronger, and more precious, than it would have been untouched._

 

She turned her back to the mirror and looked behind again, looking at the vicious blue bruises, and the deep scars that Ramsay left on her back, her arms, her sides, adding dark and shocking hues against her smooth, milk-white skin.

Years earlier, she had adored others’ praise of her beauty, hoping to be the Queen of Love and Beauty. She now rolled her eyes at such childish vanity.

She put her nightgown on, and left her room quietly, heading up the stairs, and was met by Ser Davos.

“Good evening, my Lady.”

“Good evening, Davos,” she replied, not wanting to be rude, but making her way past him.

“May I ask you a question, Lady Sansa?” She stopped, somewhat annoyed. “Yes?”

He approached her, looking like he was struggling for the right words to say. “Forgive me, my Lady, but I’ve sworn an oath to Lord Snow.”

The suspicious look he was giving her offended her deeply. “I appreciate your loyalty, but your tone sounds like a threat.”

“Not a threat, my Lady, but a question. I wasn’t taught royal etiquette—“

“Clearly,” said Sansa, not bothering to hide her annoyance. “Now, what’s your point?”

“I don’t know what you’re doing, or what you’re trying to do with him, but I won’t let anyone bring him any harm.”

“Then we should get along better than we seem to right now. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s late, and I need to get to bed.” As she brushed past Davos, he said “You’re sharing his bed.” With that, she turned fuming. “Now, you’re REALLY out of line. And it’s definitely not smart to accuse the sister of the King what you’re accusing me of, to anyone, most especially, me.”

“Like I said, I wasn’t taught royal etiquette. And, like I said, I’m not threatening you; I’m only asking a question, which I still haven’t gotten to.”

“Well, think carefully,” said Sansa, ice water coursing through her veins.

Davos searched again for words. “…do you love him?”

She balked at his question, and he continued. “I’m discreet. And I’m loyal; I wouldn’t tell anyone. I want to be as much help to you as I can. And I honestly wouldn’t object if you did, but I can advise and help you better if I know. Do you?”

She lightened, seeing the sincerity in his eyes, and remembering Jon describing to her how much they needed him, his war record, loyalty, and discretion. She looked him in the eyes. “…yes. I do love him.”

Davos nodded slowly. “Sorry for troubling you, my Lady. Sleep well.”

 

Sansa entered the Lord’s Chamber, and Jon turned towards her. “Can’t sleep?

“Did I wake you?”

“No; did I wake you?”

“I just went to bed.”

“Er, you don’t mind—?”

“No—no, you’re fine.” He sat up in bed, and gestured for her. She crawled on the bed next to him, and allowed herself to fall into his arms, her face falling naturally on his  chest, just below his neck, her ear next to his heart.

“I-is this gonna be our thing now? Are we gonna sleep like this from now on?” She looked up at him. “I can go back, if you want—“  
“No, I kinda like this,” said Jon. You…you feel good.” Sansa smiled. “You smell nice, too,” he said, and they both blushed. Sansa quietly inhaled, face just below his neckline. The sweet, woodsy scent still clung to him, and she blushed harder. “So do you.” After a few moments of strange silence, Jon said, “I don’t think I wanted to be King.” Sansa looked up at him, and Jon continued. “Not I’m not grateful, it’s just that I never thought I would be.”

“How do you mean?”

“I’m a bastard…I guess I got so used to being the bastard that I never thought I’d be King.”

“I understand, Jon, I do. I don’t think either of us imagined we’d ever end up here, like this. Here, in the Lord’s Chamber, or having survived everything.”  
“Define survived,” said Jon.

“You’re here, in the bed, with me; I hear your heartbeat, I feel how warm you are, and the blood going through your body. You smell much better than a corpse.” She raised her head and her back, and looked him in the eye. "Your body’s not stiff, though you are, sometimes.” They both chuckled slightly. “Your eyes are not pale, or all-white.” She kept one hand on his shoulder, near the base of his neck, and ran her other hand through his thick dark curls. “I know you’ve been through so much. And you’ve seen more death than most people do in their life. You saw it yourself.” They searched each other’s eyes. “It’s probably easy, at times, to think that you are still dead. Don’t fall into that trap, Jon.” She raised her lips to his forehead, letting the kiss linger there, before looking at him. “It’s so easy to fall into that. But don’t ever think that. I need you too much for that, Jon.” She moved her hand, slowly and gently, from his shoulder, to the back of his neck. “I love you too much to let you.” She leaned in, and started cocking her head to the side, closed her eyes, and placed a long, lingering, soft, gentle kiss on his lips. She felt a hesitation from Jon in the first few moments, then he accepted, kissing her back, moving his hands through her hair and gently caressing her back. She leaned into him with her back, too deep into the kiss to notice or care about the stinging in her back. She took in his warm breath, and gave hers, taking and giving nothing else. After what must’ve been a few minutes, she pulled back, collecting her breath, and opening her eyes slowly, meeting his, and smiling. “Dead men don’t kiss, and they don’t kiss like that.” She lowered her head back onto his chest.

“I…I don’t think I know what to say, Sans.”

“We can say everything we need to tomorrow. But, for now, we should get some sleep.” She kissed the area of his nightshirt where his heart was.

“…where do we go from here?”

“I honestly don’t know, Jon. But I promise you it won’t be boring.” She kissed him where his heart was again, and looked up at him. “And I promise you that we’ll survive.”


	6. The First Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay in the chapter, dear readers; the personal life had to come before the fictional life for a while. That being said, I'm already at work on the next. Thank you all for the comments, and genuinely good questions! And, finally, here's the new chapter, called The First Day.

Sansa was woken the next morning by a pair of fingers making random traces and patterns up and down her back. When Jon’s fingers hit a sore spot, her eyes went wide open and she flinched, drawing a sharp and audible breath in her nose, fingers clenching somewhat. He instinctively lifted his hand from her back.

“You alright, Sans?”

She looked up at him. "Y-yes. I'm fine. Don't worry, it was nothing."

Jon’s hand went into her hair, and she felt him lay a kiss in her hair on the top of her head. She looked up at him, smiling through sleepy eyes.

“Good morning to you, too…” She said, before shifting again off of Jon and to his right side, trying to make the stinging stop. She held her head up with her left arm, and ran her right hand through his thick, curly black mane.

“Something on your mind?” Jon asked her.

“I never imagined that I’d ever be home again, or that I’d see you again…”  
“Or that we’d be here together, like this?”

“Like what?” She looked at him with a smile growing on the sides of her mouth, wondering if he’d say it.

“Like lovers.” She smiled as he said it. As she saw the blush going through his cheeks, leaned in fast, nearly driving her face into him, surprising him with the sudden kiss. Through the narrow slit of her nearly shut eyes, she saw the sudden surprise on his wide eyes and bright red face, before closing her eyes completely and letting herself savor the passion of this moment. She enjoyed the heat in his blushing face, and chuckled in the kiss as she felt her own blush, before trying to deepen it, taking in the heat from his face, trying to see if his mouth tasted differently than Littlefinger’s or Ramsay’s. She moaned as he kissed her back, tasting it like the finest mead, savoring the passion he put into it like cinnamon and spice, and loving the feel of his fingers through her hair as her hand went through the back of his and to his neck. She kept going until she couldn’t breathe. She pulled back, breathing in again, and they looked at each other, and burst out laughing together, nearly in sync.

 As their laughter started to dissipate, she just continued to look at him, before slightly sobering her expression. “We are going to have to be careful, tho. Imagine what a boon this would be to our enemies if they knew about our love, or even our allies.”

“They’d rip down the gates and drag us out…”

“But I think I know of a way to protect us from that.”

He looked at her. “I think I know what you mean.”His hand had been stroking her neck and shoulder, and now he was moving it down her arm. It hit a still-tender bruise, and she flinched. She knew he had noticed. Jon slowly ran his hand down to the base of her sleeve, and guilt and terror washed over her face as he started to roll it up. He ran the sleeve up to the 1st bruise, and stopped.

“…Did Ramsay do this to you?”

She nodded, scrunching her face to try to keep her eyes from watering. He let the sleeve fall back down, and she slowly turned around, wanting to show him, but terrified to do so. She faced away with her back to him, and her lip trembled as she reached behind her for the lace that kept her nightshirt tied and on her.

“You don’t have t-“

“Yes I do, Jon,” she interrupted him, voice cracking. She looked up and saw that Jon had a vase on his nightstand built and made in the same way as had the vase in her old room. She looked at the cracks filled with gold, and pulled the string, undoing the nightshirt.

 

_They made it stronger, and more precious, than it would have been untouched. I have to be like that too, now._

 

The shirt slackened, and she brushed the edges off of her shoulder, not looking at Jon. It fell down her arms, landing for a second on her breasts, before falling off of her completely, and onto her lap. She hung her head, hiding her face in her long red locks, feeling the air on her still-open cuts and wounds, not looking at Jon, unable to keep the waterfall from her eyes as she tried to keep from audibly crying.

Jon balked at the black, blue, and red palette that colored her otherwise canvas-white skin. He saw Sansa’s erratic and fast rise and fall of breath, heard her breathing sharply through her nose, and knew she was crying. He got off the bed, and walked to her front, and faced her.

Sansa saw him pick up the shirt from her lap. He wrapped it around her back, and brushed the hair out of her face. She looked up at him, and saw the expression of pity and sorrow on his face, and stood so fast she nearly jumped, throwing herself in an embrace around him. She was now openly weeping, and Jon held her head over his shoulder with one hand, and her shirt on her back with the other.

“I-I didn—I didn’t want you to know, and think…”She sobbed, as Jon just held onto her and said simply, “I understand.”

 

~~**~~

 

At Castle Black, a guard ran up to Lord Commander Edd. “Lord Commander! Lord Commander! Someone’s at the Northern gate, on the other side of the wall!”


	7. Bring On The Stars, And Fade To Silence

Edd turned to the guard. “Wights?”

“I dunno, Lord Commander! Too far to tell, but they’re wearing Wildling clothes!”

“Free folk, or Thenns?”

“Too far to tell!”

Edd looked to the sentry guarding the front gate, and called, “Do you see anybody?”

“No, Edd! Just like every other fuckin’ day now! No one at all!”

“That’s Lord Commander Edd! You don’t see anyone, at all?”

“No, Lord Commander!”

Edd turned back to the guard. “Gather five other men to meet them, and bring torches.”

“Yes, Lord Commander!”

Edd ran to get his horse, and the five men lit their torches as one. Edd called for another man to open the Northern gate, and the five men charged.

 

As they approached the children, Edd saw that they were clearly alive, but only just. They were worn, and pale, and appeared gaunt. One of them, who looked like a girl, was carrying the other on a stretcher that she clearly could not drag for any kind of long distance. As they neared the children, the scruffy boy on the stretcher was shouting at them “N-n-n-n-n-no! No! NO! NO-WAIT—“ Edd and his men were circling around him now. The two were shouting something, but Edd couldn’t hear over the furious thunder of the horses’ hooves. Edd raised his hand for the men to stop; the children clearly posed no threat.

“Thank you; we were trying to sa—“

“Shut up, bitch!” The guard who had spotted them waved his torch an inch from her face, making her fall backward, onto the boy. “What are two Wildling bastards doing at the Wall?”

“We’re not Wildlings, and we’re not bastards!” The boy shouted at him.

“Who are you, then?” asked Edd.

“I’m Bran, of House Stark!”

 

_Stark? Jon?_

 

“Jon Snow’s half-brother.” The boy said.

Edd surveyed him. His legs lay flat upon the stretcher. “Aye, you’re that cripple boy? Took a bit of a tumble?”

“He spoke about me?”

“What’s your sisters’ names?” He held his torch to the boy’s face. When the girl tried to grab the handle, he swung it to her. “You don’t want to do that.” He then swung it back to the boy claiming to be Bran. “Your sisters’ names.”

“Sansa and Arya.”

“Which one’s the pretty one?”

“Sansa, I suppose.”

“And what’s the other like?”

“…like a boy; she likes to shoot arrows and fight with swords.”

“Your brothers’ names?”

“Robb and Rickon.”

“Your parents?”

“Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn.”

“What’s Jon like?”

“…I dunno…a bit brooding, and kind of gloomy?”

“Who’s she?” said Edd, gesturing to the girl. “Your carrier?”

“I’m Meera Reed, daughter of Lord Howland Reed, of Greywater Watch.”

“What are two pampered Nobler children doing here?”

“The reason’s too long to explain out here in the cold.” When Edd motioned the torch close to him, the boy said, “If you know Jon so well, are you really going to kill his little brother?”

“I might if you’re lying.” He looked the children over again. “If you’re Noblers, why the fucking Wildling clothes?”

Bran looked at him as if the answer was obvious. “We’re cold.”

Edd just nodded his head slowly, looking at him, then said, “Alright. You, Meera, you ride with him,” pointing to the guard who had spotted them. She had a look of apprehension, then realized that the man had been staring at her the whole time, and remembered his particular record of crimes. “Actually, ride with me. Bran, you ride with him. Hop on his horse, quick as you like.” Meera gave him a glare that could melt half the Wall, and Bran looked nervous. “Just checking.”

He dismounted and picked Bran up. He was surprised, and worried, at how light he was. His legs were limp, but that did not necessarily mean he was who he said he was. For all he knew, the boy could be holding his legs limp. He carried him low on his person, intentionally digging the hilt of his sword hard into Bran’s right leg, hard enough to hurt. Bran’s face did not register any hint of pain. He lifted Bran onto the other horse, but before he did, he dug into Bran’s leg as hard and fast as he could, hard enough to leave a bruise, masking it as a grunting effort to lift him up. He did not whimper or flinch.

As they rode to the gate, Bran asked Edd, “Where’s Jon? Why isn’t he with you? He’s here, isn’t he?”

“That’s a long story too. Maybe I’ll tell you after you tell me what you two are doing up here.”

 

Edd sat at the table in the dining hall, across from Meera and adjacent to Bran. Bran could not sit up on the booth, so he sat in the chair at the end of the table. It had long arm-rests, which prevented Bran from falling out of the chair. He watched them attack the stale salt beef voraciously, again and again, and the speed at which each serving disappeared. The sour ale, which even he found hard to swallow at times, was finished in entire gulps, even if the children did grimace at the taste. He wondered how long they had gone without food or water.

“Where’s Jon?” Bran asked, almost incoherent with his stuffed mouth.

“Like I said, tell me what you’re doing here. This isn’t an inn or a watering hole, and we’re not a charity. The only reason I’m lettin’ you stuff your face like that,” he pointed to Bran’s mouth, so stuffed he had trouble keeping his mouth closed, “is we’ve a shortage o’ men right now, and you look like you’ve been through at least one of the Seven Hells. You also said you were Jon’s brother, and some o’ yer details match what he told us. But if you’re lying, boy, I’ll kill the both o’ ya where you’re fuckin’ sittin’.”

“Mmph…I’m not.”

“So you say. Like I said, what’re two Nobler children doin’ up here?”

“Have you heard of the Three-Eyed Raven, or the Bloodraven?”

“No.”

“Well, what do you think of magic?”

“I might’ve seen a few things.”

“Like?”

“Things that would send chills up yer spine.” When Bran looked at his chair and back him, he said, “I know.”

“Well, that’s what I’m up here for. Magic, I mean.”

“You left a home that I’m sure is very big and cozy, and came up here just when Winter is coming, for magic?”

“I didn’t have a choice…”

“What kind of magic?”

“The kind of magic that makes me sure Jon will hear what I know.” He leaned in. “The kind of magic that has showed me the Night’s King and the White Walkers, and the thousands at his command. I’ve seen him.” He rolled up his sleeve, and saw Edd’s eyes open a little more than they were. “I’ve seen how vast the dead are that follow him. And if you’ve seen him, you’d know that theres nothing this little hobble, and the amount of men here, can do to even slow him down.”  
Edd leaned back in his chair, looking at him and slowly nodding his head. “You talk a good talk, boy.” He looked to Meera. “And you, what’re you, his legs?” He noticed in his peripheral vision that Bran blushed when he said that.

“I suppose I am.”

“And can you confirm any of his horseshit?”

“He’s not lying. I’ve seen him too.”

“What’s he look like?”

“Very tall, clad in all-black. His skin is blue and white, and you can almost see through him, like ice. He has horns protruding from his head.”

“You’re only a little bigger than him, and you were pretty tired when we picked you up. You dragged him all the way here from Winterfell, or Greywater?”

“We had a couple of companions. One of them was quite big. He carried Bran everywhere after his fall, and carried him all the way up here.”

“Where’s he now?”

“The Wights killed him.”

“What was his name?”

“Hodor,” they both said in unison.

Edd nodded slowly, once again. “You’re lucky I’ve heard of him. Jon mentioned him. So, what the fuck are you doing here now?”

“We came to warn him of the Night’s King and his army of the dead.”

“He’s no longer here. He went home, and had to fight for it. That’s also the reason why there are so few men left here.”

“We have to get to him; that’s not the only thing I have to tell him.”

“What else?”

“Who he really is.”


	8. Ring Out The Bells, Trading In Blindness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I deeply apologize to my anxious readers; life and work got in the way, for over a month. But, I have finally completed a new chapter for you to feast on to your heart's content; enjoy!

Jon awoke in bed, across from Sansa. He looked at her through drowsy, half-asleep eyes, though he was slowly rousing. She was perfectly quiet, with no hint of a snore, and hardly any sound of breath coming from her nose. If if weren’t for the steady rise and fall of her chest, one could assume she was no more.

She looked peaceful.

 

_The kind of peace that I could speak of._

 

He banished the thought. As he studied the ivory beauty of Sansa’s face, he remembered the promise he had made to her the night before the battle. He would protect her life with all of his. He would never let another man or monster touch her again. He would die, and live, for her.

 

_I do love you, Sansa. Oh, Father, what would you think?_

 

He brought his hand to her right arm gently, as he mentally replayed the sight of Ramsay’s work. She had been hesitant to show him, but afterwards had recounted with him the whole story of Littlefinger, and his suasions, and his handing her off to the Bolton bastard. He would never let Littlefinger so much as a sword’s length from her. He'd run the slender man through if he ever so much as touched her.

As he remembered the intensity and sweetness of Sansa’s kiss the morning before, and her crying into his shoulder after showing him, he remembered her arriving, cold, hungry, desperate, shivering and aching, when she had arrived at the Wall. He moved his hand up her arm, to the base of her neck, and edged closer to her, not wanting to wake her. Then, after he moved closer to her, he noticed her eyes open.

“Jon?”

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s alright…I like waking up like this, with you.”

Jon blushed. He looked down at her nearly transparent nightgown, seeing the bandages that went across her arms and entire chest. “Are they feeling better?”

“My bosom?” Jon noticed where he was looking, Sansa chuckled as Jon looked elsewhere. He moved his hand off of her, but she clasped it. “I was just kidding, Jon!” she giggled. “It doesn’t hurt me right now.”

They stared at each other in the dawn light, hands still clasped. As they lay like that, Sansa noticed a big blush cross Jon’s face, before he slowly raised the back of her hand to his mouth.

At the gesture, she momentarily remembered the beatings of the Knights of the Kingsguard. The knights of legend, who were worse to her than any monster in songs.

 

_There is a hero, after all._

 

She looked at him with a cocked eyebrow as he looked at her. “And what was that, Ser?” She chuckled.

“Something I’d always wanted to do, my lady.” He grinned. She watched the expression on his face turn from that blushing grin which she so loved to see on his face, to one of concern. “What is it, Jon?”

“We have that council meeting today.”

“And?”  
“Littlefinger will be there.” As the words came out of his mouth, he avoided looking at her, but looked directly in her eyes afterward. She searched his, and put a reassuring smile on, as she said, “I’ll be alright, Jon. I can handle him.”

“Can you?”

“Yes. I’m not a fragile waif.” She released her right hand from his clasp, and put it on his. “I’m Sansa Stark. I’m the Lady of Winterfell. And it takes much more than a snake to kill a direwolf.”

“Snakes are venomous.”

“Only if you let them bite you. They can only bite if you’re off guard, and you’re not quick and clever enough.”

He continued to look at her with concern. His concern was sweet, but flustering. “I can be in the same room with him; it’s probably best if I am, even. You need someone in there who knows him, and knows how his mind works, and can handle him.”  
“And you can handle him?”  
“Yes! I know how he thinks, and what he wants. And I can divert him. You will need me in there.” Her hold on his arm tightened. “You ignored me before the battle. Now, please, Jon, let me help you. He is incredibly clever, and dangerous. A snake, just like you said.”

“Alright, Sans, you’re right.” His eyes darted to and from her eyes. He watched his eyes trail the lines of her bandages beneath her translucent dress, and his left forearm raised to meet hers, and he looked back in her eyes.

“Just remember what I promised you that night in the tent, before the battle. I’ll protect you; I won’t let anyone hurt you or touch you like that again.”

Her expression softened, and as her eyes darted to each of his, her mouth opened slightly, then pursed shut, and then slightly opened, as she tried to find the right words to say to him. Unable to, she moved her left hand to the back of his neck, and her right to his back in a loose embrace, pulling him in, closing her eyes, and locking lips with his.

 

_Oh, sweet Jon, can’t you see that I’m doing the same for you?_

 

She parted, and looked at him. As his hand caressed her side, hers went through his thick black mane, as she said, “I know you will. Just, please, let me do the same for you.”

 

~~**~~

 

At mid-day, Jon, Sansa, Ghost, and Ser Davos watched the assembled Lords, Lady, and Freefolk file into the Great Hall in Winterfell. Tormund Giantsbane was the first one to arrive, embracing Jon in a bear hug.

“Look at you, Crow, dressing all fancy! Traded in your Crow’s garb for a nice bearskin!”  
“It’s not a bear’s fur,” said Sansa. “It’s a great wolf’s. The wolves rule Winterfell.”  
“I can see,” said Tormund, trying to ease the pall that Sansa had interjected. “I don’t understand you fancy Nobles’ obsession with animals. Did I tell you lot the story about my encounter with the bear?”

“Maybe another time,” said Jon. “Glad to have you.”

Tormund stopped in front of Sansa and said, “No offense meant, my Lady. I can already tell that you are worthy of devout love from your people, and intense fear from your enemies.”

Sansa smiled at him, saying, “I hope I can always count on you and your people as friends. And thank you for everything you’ve done for Jon.”

He wrapped her up in his bear hug, which was much more smothering on her. He let go of her just before she started gasping, and made his way to a seat close to the front of the room. Sansa looked at Jon as she was still collecting her breath, as he and Davos chuckled at her still-red face. “He does that,” chuckled Jon.

Lyanna Mormont and her guards came next. “Good to see you as always, Lady Mormont,” greeted Sansa.

“Likewise; just promise me that this fancy gathering won’t be too boring or pointless; I do have actual business to attend to.”

Sansa stopped a chuckle at Lady Mormont’s bluntness. “I feel the same way.” She glanced at Littlefinger, Lord Royce, and Sweetrobin approaching. “I suspect that today’s council might be very interesting, though.”

“I doubt that. Should I find my own seat?”

“Yes; go right in.”

After Lady Mormont and her guards made their place, the other assembled Lords, Cerwyn, Manderley, and the Seven know who else, and of course Lord Baelish, made the polite gestures and their places in the Great Hall. The King in the North, the Lady of Winterfell, and Ser Davos, the newly-appointed Hand of the King, seat at the places of honor. Jon got up to speak.

“Friends, allies, battle mates, and Northerners, we thank you for joining us for the first official Northern council. We are honored by the presence of all attended, and we seek nothing but peace and survival in our homeland. We hope, by the Light of the Seven, that no one leaves this room feeling at odds with our King.” She looked back at Jon, for his approval. He beamed back at her. With a slight blush as she turned around, she continued, “May we leave no stone unturned, no grievance resolved, and no wound festering among us today.” As the throng continued to stare at him, Sansa piped up, “And all hail the King in the North!”

“THE KING IN THE NORTH!” The throng called out.

She turned to Jon, and then sat back down.

 

~~**~~

 

As the Northern sun set, setting the winter clouds aflame with color outside, Sansa sat in her seat as the council drolled on, leaning her face against her loose fist. Lyanna had been quite right to expect a long, dry meeting. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sweetrobin get up, and approach to speak. She noticed that he had grown somewhat, and wondered if growing up in the tutelage of Littlefinger had done him some good. He was not as pale, though he was still short for a boy in his teens, and still had the baby fat in his face.

“L-lady Sansa, I come in good faith, and hopefully, on good terms.”

Sansa found his auspicious speech off putting. “Very, well, Lord Arryn; you may speak.”

“Well, thank you…I-“ He still stuttered, which did not surprise her. “I’ve come to remind you of your betrothal to me.”

Some of the men in attendance started chuckling at the boy’s innocuousness. “Lord Arryn, we-“

“Please; I understand that you had already been married to Tyrion Lannister, and to Ramsay Bolton…But that wasn’t treason, that was what you had to do?”

Sansa looked far behind him, at the still-seated Littlefinger, arms folded, legs crossed, looking out of the window. She wondered what kind of game he could possibly be playing with a ham-fisted move like this.

 

_Isn’t this rather sloppy? What are you doing?_

 

She stood up. “Lord Arryn, I was wedded to the imp, and to the Bolton bastard. I had no control over these decisions, which is normal politics that, by now, you should be aware of their workings. And, yes, I was promised to you, by someone else. Which is why I will have to, respectfully, decline your hand in marriage.”

“Wait, er-erm—“ He looked back at Littlefinger, then back at Sansa, clearly flustered. _Of course…_ “But are ladies allowed to do that?”

“Northern ladies are, boy,” Lyanna interjected, which brought hearty chuckles from the throng. Sweetrobin was becoming flustered, and saw a look in his eyes that she had seen often enough at the Vale, and did not want a scene to ensue on the floor of the Great Hall. She stood up. “Lord Arryn, I have no contention with you, and am grateful for your gracious assist in the Battle for Winterfell. But, that does not mean that I have to marry you, contrar—“

He collapsed on the floor, and convulsed like a madman, thrashing wildly about. He no longer had any control over his body. Sansa got up from her chair, and called for help as she rushed to him, and was momentarily surrounded by Lord Royce and a couple of his guards to hold him down.

“Do you have something to put in his mouth?” Lord Royce handed her a rod, and held his head down by his forehead, allowing Sansa to put the rod in between the poor boy’s teeth.

“I’m sorry, Lord Royce, I didn’t mean for a scene to happen like this—“

“Nothing of your fault, Sansa. I can take care of this.”

Sansa let the Vale Knights handle him, and went back to her place beside Jon. As she sat back down, she felt Jon squeeze her hand. He muttered to her, so that no one else could hear, “Let me help you.”

She squeezed his hand back. “How?”

Jon got up to speak. “What Lady Sansa was trying to say, before this unfortunate incident, was that she can’t marry Lord Arryn, because she promised herself to me.”

A pall of total silence fell over the Great Hall. Sansa looked up at Jon, and Jon looked back at her with a reassuring smile. “Is this true?” They heard Lyanna call out. Sansa nodded to Jon, who turned around and answered, simply, “Yes.”. The Great Hall rose and echoed in volume.

“ORDER! ORDER IN HERE! ORDER!” Davos shouted. “ORDER! EVERYONE BE QUIET AND SIT BACK DOWN!”Jon stood up and joined him. As Jon raised his hand for quiet. As the rabble dissipated and everyone sat back down, one of the Lords shouted, “When was this?”

“It was decided yesterday,” Sansa got up, answering him directly. “His Grace proposed to me yesterday, and I accepted, of my own volition. We did not want to rush the announcement for fear of panic or gossip, but this council today has, apparently, left us no choice but to clarify and announce it.”

Davos stood up, and said loudly, “Any other grievances, or points of contention?” Lyanna stood up. “I have something to say! I don’t know about you lot, but I say, long live the King,” she turned to look at Sansa. “And Queen, in the North!

 

~~**~~

 

As Jon and Sansa strode out of the Great Hall, still amidst cheers of “KING-“ and “QUEEN IN THE NORTH!”, walking swiftly away from the Hall and to the stair corridor, Sansa said, “Already, Jon?”

“The boy went on and on about you being betrothed to him, and how you were his, and I remembered you telling me about your previous betrothals and marriages. And I remembered this morning’s conversation, Sansa; we have to protect each other.”

“We’ll have to handle this carefully, Jon, we can’t have people talking about us in the same context as the Lannisters—”

“Will you?”

“Will I what?”

“Will you have me, as your husband?”

“Now you ask me!” She chided him, in jest, and slapped him in the chest. “I…of course, I will, your Grace!”  
“Please don’t call me that—“ said Jon, before Sansa wrapped her arms around him in a hard hug.

Sansa’s mind was spinning with the implications of what just transpired in the Great Hall, and here, just now. She still did not know entirely what she felt, or why, but she knew that she loved this man. How, she still found hard to say or rationalize. But she knew that she could and would live with him, and watch out for him. She knew that she could and would be her hero’s Queen. She pulled back from the hug, and clasped his face, bringing it to his, in a fast and intense kiss, clinging to him, taking in his breath, not wanting to let him go. As the kiss deepened, she felt him wrap his arms around her, and wrapped hers around his neck and the back of his head, pulling him into her, using the strength of her still-sore back to express all that she felt for him, and in this moment, giving it all to Jon’s lips.

They pulled back for breath, and heard quick footsteps running up the corridor. “My Graces!” A young squire ran up the corridor, out of breath and wheezing. “Congratu—hunh—lations, and…hah…” he collected himself. “I just heard the news, and may the Seven shine many blessings on my King and Queen. But, I came here to deliver a note from a raven from the Wall.”


	9. Oak, Pine, Musk, Mint Oil, and Salty Sweat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I really apologize for the long time between posting the last chapter and this one; I promise that I will be more frequent. I hope that you enjoy this new arc, dear readers.

The throng had all left. Very nearly all in attendance had wished them a well and happy engagement, and many heirs. Sansa still did not know whether to be more angry at Jon’s impulsiveness, or honored at his gesture.

She lay in her warm bath, alone, in silence. She reached almost instinctively for the lemon oil, then thought twice, opting instead for the lilac and mint scented ones.

She knew that the following events would be difficult; she was not able to think of what events would follow. How would the marriage of a Stark daughter, and a bastard, be received by the people of Winterfell? Would they be suspicious, or would they accept a bold and unusual Stark union, for the sake of the Stark name?

And, just as importantly, were the contents of the letter from the Wall true?

 

_What have you done, Jon? And what will we do?_

 

She got out of the bath, and approached the mirror. After running the brush through her hair, she ran the tooth twig through her teeth, ground up a couple mints, mixed them with water, and swallowed it after swashing it in her mouth. She then summoned the physician to wrap her back up in bandages along her torso and upper arms.

She donned a plain, light blue translucent gown, and went to her bed in the Lords’ Chamber. To Jon. Her hero, her bastard, and very likely the end of both of them.

She opened the door, and he turned to her, already lying on the bed. He sat up as she got on next to him. Instead of sleeping to his side, or curling into his strong arms again, she went to the window, and peered out to the quiet and empty streets, and the snowfall. The storm was nowhere near them yet.

“What’re you looking at, Sansa?”

“Nothing there yet, I suppose.” She then turned to him. “What do you think of the letter?” She said, turning to him.

“I don’t know what to make of it, Sans. The handwriting makes me think it’s possible.”

“Why?”

“It has the seal of the Watch, but it’s written by a hand that writes much prettier than anyone at the Wall could, especially since none of the men there could write when I left.”

“No one could read or write?”

“I sent the scribe that we had on the Wall off to be a new Maester of the Watch a few months ago, and I handled the letters in his absence. And aside from myself, after we hung the men who killed me, we had no one else in the Watch who could read or write.”

“Not that well thought through, was that?”

“When they killed me, I wasn’t thinking about how literate they were. And when I had to judge them, their ability to read didn’t count as much for their actions.”

She remembered the sight of his scars when he had shown her after the Battle. “I understand your point, Jon, but we are no longer at the Wall. You are not ruling over a group of weary, tired dregs.” She turned to face him. “You are the King in the North now. You rule over a land that has already rebelled against the new Queen’s son. And now you rule over a land in the same way. You are loyal, and a fierce fighter. And you are the most honorable man in Westeros. But, you will need more than your honor to maintain Winterfell now.”

“You were with the Lannisters, and the Boltons, and Littlefinger. Can you think like them?”

“I think so, yes.” She crossed the room to the bed to him. He held out one arm, which she curled into, as the other wrapped itself under her arm and around her, and he kissed her forehead. He then brought his head down to her level, and kissed her lips softly. Sansa reached her hand behind his head, and deepened the kiss, tasting warm, sweet mead on his breath.

 

_Is this what a marriage is supposed to be?_

 

Sansa let go of his soft curls and pulled back.

“What’s wrong?”

“Why?” She whispered.

“Why what?”

“Why do you want me to marry you?”

He smiled with the side of his mouth, in that way that she still couldn’t help but love. He was a natural brooder, but she found his smile beautiful. “Because I have to protect you. Because I can’t stand the though let any harm upon you. Because I need you. Because I love you.”

She looked back at him, and ran her palm across his scruff. “…you’re very sweet, Jon.” She then tried to compose herself. But we—we need to be careful. We need to think about how this will be received by the rest of the North.”

“The Lords at the council seemed to accept it.”

“In front of you, yes; you’re their new King. We don’t know if they really trust your judgment. And, I don’t know if I trust it. Or mine.”

“What do you mean?” Jon turned her around on the bed to look at him. “What’s really wrong?”

Sansa looked in his eyes, and while she tried to find the right words, Jon found them 1st. “You came to me at the Wall, Sansa. You convinced me to come home, and fight for it. I wanted to remain dead, until YOU. You saw my scars, and I saw yours. And that was brave of you to show me. And I’ll never let anyone ever do that to you again. I will fight them off, and keep fighting them. Littlefinger, the Boltons, the Lannisters, the White Walkers, all of them, all of the monsters in this world, I won’t let them come near you again.”

 

_But can I be a wife again? Can I be the wife you need and deserve?_

 

She clasped his face, and kissed him deeply, slowly tugging at her lips with his. He opened his mouth to her, and they wrapped their arms around each other, hungry for each other’s lips.

 

~~**~~

 

Sansa ran into her washroom, tears streaming out of her face. She did not know why she had reacted the way that she had. She ran to the mirror, putting both hands on the dresser below it and pulling herself together, choking it back, subduing and ceasing the cries that wanted to come out. She didn’t know why she had reacted the way she had. And she felt ashamed and humiliated, not for what she’d just done, but for what she must have just done to him. She put a hand towel over her face, holding her face tightly in it, making herself stop crying and gathering her breath, calming herself, and making the visions stop. _They’re not here,_ she thought, _they’re NOT HERE! And he is--NOT--them!_

She managed to calm down, and returned to the mirror, observing her swollen red face. She ran her hands in the cool water bowl, and splashed and rubbed some water in her face. She heard his heavy footsteps coming up the hall, and locked the door. He rattled on it, she thought doing it heavier than he intended to. But she still didn’t want to see him right now, even though she knew that was unfair to him.

“Sansa?! Sansa, what’s wrong?”

“I’m fine, Jon,” she answered him loudly so he could hear. “I’m sorry. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? I didn’t mean—I didn’t mean to hurt—“

“It’s alright, Jon, you didn’t.”

“Then why—“

“IT’S ALRIGHT, JON,” she shouted back this time, then when hearing silence, but still seeing his shadow under the door, she replied in a calmer voice, “…it’s alright, Jon. I’m fine. You didn’t do anything wrong; anything at all.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, but, just—…I need to be alone, for a minute. Please. Leave me some privacy.”

“Should I send for the maester?”  
“NO…just, right now, please, leave me be. I need…to be alone right now.”

She went alone into her own bedroom, but did not get any sleep at all that night.

Hours later, she watched the sun rise from the window, alone, in her own room.

She was still sore between her legs, but she did not blame Jon. He had been nothing but gentle, and gracious, and soothing. She remembered running her hands through his thick, beautiful black curls, and at times along his forearms, and naked back. His muscle was hard and lean, but his skin was incredibly soft. He had one of his hands behind her still-bandaged back, holding her, tenderly, and close to him, as he had moved gently inside her, wanting to please but not hurt her, and he kept the other hand sometimes behind her head, holding hers against his, and other times trying to soothe her by alternating his other hand; running his thumb against her forehead, and then through the hair on the back of her head. When they weren’t kissing, he was trying to console her when she whimpered, whispering in her ear, “sh-ssshhh, I’m s-sorry, I don’t want it to hurt…”  But, when he moved too deeply, and her back and belly started to hurt, she had visions in the back of her head, of Ramsay, and of Lord Baelish. She had panicked.

As she lay in her own bed, she sniffed her arm.

 

_Oak, and pine, and musk, and mint oil, and salty sweat…it still smells of him._

 

She turned to her side, and looked at the cracked vase mended and fixed with gold on the shelf. Her eyes filled with tears.

 

_I’m not as strong, after all._


	10. Insight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This'll be my last chapter for now, until the end of season 7. I don't intend to copy any storylines; I am going to cover articles, metas, and recaps of the episodes every week, starting with the 1st and 2nd, on howlinwolfwb.tumblr.com. I already have drafts for the coming arc, but it will be covered as soon as the hype and drama over season 7 is over. But, for now, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Sansa continued to lay in her bed, as the soft, cloud-diffused sunlight started to trace the wall. She had not slept the entire night.

The memory of Littlefinger’s lanky, slender frame on top of her, and the bittersweet taste of his tongue. He always washed his mouth with vanilla and mint water. It made her hate the taste and smell of vanilla. She had never even tried mint since, until last night.

The remembered the terror and indignation of that moment when the man had showed her Moat Cailin, and told her who the Bolton marriage proposal was really for. And the slogging malaise of her first few days in the occupied, bastardized “home” she was thrown into. She had observed the behaviors of the Bolton family. She had known from her first interaction with him, that the ambitious and wild-eyed Ramsay Snow was at the very least insane.

 

_No. Not insane. Dangerous._

 

Ramsay was a predator. He was vicious. He was a master manipulator. She learned very well, and very quickly, that there were very few times when whatever he said was not either a blatant lie or concealing an ulterior motive. The only times that she knew of that he ever spoke merely the truth, was when he had her limbs tied up in his chamber.

 

Littlefinger was persuasive, and subversive. The low opinion he had made for himself in the minds of the other Westerosi lords and nobles worked to his advantage. And Ramsay was a coercive, forceful, domineering, always-thinking predator, whose nature was only available to those closest to him, as she and his family had learned.

 

_But Jon's not like either of them, in any regard. He is gentle, and protective. He is impulsive, but he has never had any bad intention, in the Watch, or the battle, or toward me._

 

_Why did I think of them, with him?_

 

Sansa heard a scratching at the door, then heard a quick and anxious sniffing coming from the slip underneath. She went to the door, and before she could tell Ghost to go away, he shoved his enormous head through the open crack of the door, and bounded onto the bed. The now-enormous direwolf circled the sheets and mattress of her bed, and sniffed her imprint on the bed, ignoring Sansa’s loud and harshly whispered orders for him to get off. When she approached the bed, Ghost lay down nearly straight, next to her imprint on the bed, lowering his snout beneath his forelegs, not wagging his tail, but looking directly at her. When she tried pushing him off, he moaned deeply, then started to grumble, until Sansa grabbed his mane. He got up at her slight tug, and they continued that way down the hall, then up the stairs.

She reached his room, and pushed open the door. Jon appeared to be still asleep. She heard his breathing; he was not snoring, but she did not remember him breathing loudly or out his mouth when they slept together.

 

 

Breakfast that morning was quiet. They did not see each other until they both reached the Great Hall. The only words that they spoke the entire time were short monosyllables of good mornings, and little else. They were eating slowly, and not speaking to each other. They occasionally looked at each other, but not at the same time. When the rest of the people in the Great Hall, including Davos had already gone and went about their day, Jon finally broke their silence.

“Did I hurt you?”

She finally looked at him. “Of course you didn’t, Jon.”

“Are you hungry?”

She looked at her plate. “Not really, no.”

Jon stood up from his table. “Then come. Walk with me.”  
“Where are we going?”  
“Just for a walk, Sans. And it’s at least impolite to refuse a king.”

“I don’t think Id’ve helped you, if I knew that the new title would go to your head this fast.”  
“Just come, Sansa. The people who talk the least are the people who need to the most. And we haven’t said a word all morning.”

She went along, and they strode out of the Great Hall, and towards the castle doors. “Alright. What do you want to talk about?”

“Whatever you want to talk about, as long as we do. Or, maybe, about those things that you won’t talk about.”

“That’s a pointless talk; when people don’t talk about something, it’s because they don’t want to.”

“Or they haven’t had the right audience.”

“I wish it were as simple as battle plans," she retorted, "or political strategies.”

“It is, actually. Talking about it’s exactly that simple.” She looked at him incredulously, and he knew, but that did not stop him from continuing. “No military commander that I’ve ever heard of has devised battle plans on his own. And even hands of kings have to discuss their political power games with their kings. And they do that not just because they talk about it,” he looked at Sansa, “but because they trust each other. And they wouldn’t have them around if they didn’t trust them.”

She started laughing, and he started smirking.

“What’s so funny?”

“I hope you didn’t hurt yourself making that stretch, Jon!

The smirk stretched and turned into a blush. "It's a stretch, but doesn't mean that it's wrong."

The smile didn't go away, but softened somewhat, and she slowed her pace, and he slowed his with her. "You really want me to tell you these things?"

His eyes softened to her, and he looked at her with a look of both understanding, and of beckoning for her to understand him. "Would that be so terrible?"

 

They spent the afternoon strolling together, past the sept and great keep, and through the Godswood. Sansa told Jon about her time in King’s Landing, about Joffrey. About how Joffrey had had their father executed in front of her, calling it mercy, and then forcing her to look at his spiked head. About how he had had her beaten and nearly stripped in court by Ser Meryn Trant, as vicarious punishment for Robb’s Oxcross victory, or maybe just to satisfy his own bloodlust. How scared she had been to hope that Baelish’s offer to smuggle her out of King’s Landing, and how unwaveringly kind and compassionate Margaery Tyrell had been to her, and the crushing misery when she was made to marry the Imp, instead of Margaery’s brother.

Sansa had been so relieved that Tyrion had at least been kind to her. He had never laid a hand on her. He had even promised that he would never consummate their marriage without her willingness. They had gotten along well at a time, maybe even becoming friends.

Until she learned what Tyrion’s father had done to their mother, and Robb.

She wondered if Aunt Lysa had been insane, because she had never acted or spoken sensibly. Anyone who had been that fiercely infatuated with and devoted to Lord Baelish could not have their senses straight, and Lysa had unfortunately learned that lesson, after herself threatening to kill Sansa.

Littlefinger had made quick, and all-too-frequent work out of her virtue after Lysa’s demise, even as he was grooming the sickly house-flower Sweetrobin to be her husband, before throwing her to the mercy of the Boltons.

Jon watched pain go to her face when the conversation turn to the Boltons, and Ramsay in particular. She had spoken of the Lannisters with some reserved pain, but she had made a good show otherwise; she had even developed a dark gallows humor about Joffrey, and his mother.

They neared the Godswood.

It became hard for her to talk about her experience with Ramsay. She lost her humor. She was trying to be forthright with him.

“He was so vicious, and he always made sure that I couldn’t even move against—“  
He cut her off. “You don’t need to say everything; I don’t need to hear if it’s hard.” They arrived at the Godswood. He put his hand on her arm. “He did this?” He looked at her eyes; she was holding, but her eyes were red and puffy from the subject. She nodded, after a second. He pulled her into his arms, in a wide hug, her head over his shoulder, saying, “Don’t say anything else. Don’t dwell on him anymore.” He held onto her for as long as she held onto him, letting her tears fall down the side of the fur robe she’d made for him, onto the snow below, making their imprints in the snow before freezing.

 

Sansa lay in his bed with him that night. She had felt eager to gather a new council, to get to the businesses of Winterfell and the note from the Wall, but Jon assured her that everything would begin in earnest tomorrow. He had insisted that after their walk that day, and everything she had told him, that this day, and now night, be a respite.

She wanted to be the help to him that she knew she could be, and should be.

She liked lying here, with him, in the nights that they had been back home. She liked running her fingers through the curls of his hair, sometimes tugging on them behind his ear. His hand running through her long, slightly wavy hair, was the most comforting feeling she had ever experienced, even though it made the hair on the back of her neck stand whenever he did so.

She regretted leaving him last night, and still didn’t know why she had done so. A momentary spasm in her back had flooded her mind with all of the memories of Littlefinger, and Ramsay, with him.

 

_He’s the farthest man from Joffrey, and Littlefinger, and Ramsay that I’ve ever known._

 

As she lay here, with him, tracing circles over his chest on his thin nightshirt, and her legs crossed with his, she knew that he wasn’t like them at all. He was protective of her. He had gone to war over and for her. He was not a cold statue. He was not a hyena, looking to devour her, or a snake. He was a warm and big fire, warding the winter away from her, and keeping wild beasts at bay, and scorching any that came near.

_He is a hearth_ , she thought, as she traced her fingernail along the outlines of veins in his arm. His muscles were tense, and taught, from years on the Wall, but his skin was soft. She liked how he felt. She moved her leg to his other side, and shifted herself on top of him, taking him by surprise. “Sansa?” He said.

 

~~**~~

 

They were in full embrace now. Sansa clung to him on the bed, feeling every time he inhaled and exhaled, savoring the pressure of him holding her close to him by her back, and enjoying the feel of him. Tonight was not be like the last. She would not let herself think for another second about cruel men, only this one. She held onto him as she felt his movement. She arched her back to him, and kissed him full on the mouth, tugging at his lips with hers and swallowing a moan as she tasted the wine on his tongue that they had drank just hours ago, his hand creeping up the small of her spine. She felt a fluid in his touch, for a moment, before he pulled his hand off of her back. He pulled out of the kiss, exclaiming of “Shit, you’re bleeding!” He squirmed, and pulled away from her, showing her the blood on his hand. “Lay down on the bed,” he exclaimed, and she did so, somewhat in shock, as he hurriedly put on pants and ran out, asking loudly for the maester.

 

When all was done, and she was properly bandaged back up, he was deeply apologetic to her.

“It’s alright, Jon, you didn’t hurt me.”

“Your scars opened back up—“  
“It was my doing, Jon. I started it. Don’t apologize to me, for one second.” Then, she made up her mind, as he looked at her with his puppy eyes. “Jon, there’s something else I have to tell you,” she said, somewhat nervously.

“Anything; what is it?”

“I have to go to the Wall.”


	11. Love My Way (It's A New Road)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the hiatus. This chapter was difficult to write after 10, so I had to take a break. But I am back, and chapter 12 is underway. I'm happy to have finally finished this new chapter, and I have more coming very shortly!

A silence hung in the air, for a moment, before Sansa said, “For Bran.”

“I had made preparations for guards to go there, and find out if it’s really him. They’re leaving tonight, to not make a show of it.”

“Then I will tell them to wait until tomorrow, that their queen is accompanying them,” Sansa replied. “A goodwill mission between the Night’s Watch and their former commander. In case any rumblings of you being a traitor come up.”

“They can find him perfectly fine, Sans.”

“It’s not about that, Jon. No one has seen Bran in years. Even if the guards had seen him before, he might look or act completely different. And the girl that he said is with them, Meera Reed, she and her brother have been missing far longer than Bran has. The guards would not be able to know if it’s her, or if she’s a spy or assassin. They wouldn’t know what to do with either of them.”

“And you would?”

“No one else can; by now, only a Stark would know another Stark. I can go there and make sure it’s him. And this looks better than a bunch of soldiers possibly being seen slinking off in the middle of the night.”

“You really want to go with them, don’t you?”

“Yes. And I can arrange it all so easily.”

“Why are you so eager to go?”

She looked at him oddly, realizing he was getting at something. “What are you saying, Jon?”

“I am saying you did not make this effort for Rickon.”

The bedroom went quiet and still again. Jon could see the anger creep up in Sansa’s blue eyes. “Nothing could’ve been done for him, Jon. I felt as horrible as you did.”

“But now, with one letter, you’re ready to pack up, and ride into the sunrise in the throes of winter, and take him home?”  
“I have to find out if it’s him, Jon! In a perfect world I’d be happy to send Maester Luwin, or Theon if he were still here, but in a perfect world Bran wouldn’t be missing in the first place! So I have to go, and _see_ if it is him!”

After a long silence between them, she pressed on. “It is his handwriting. The commander you left in charge also signed it and sealed it, where he could’ve killed an imposter, which means it’s possible that it’s him…I have to go.”

“Why? Why is it so important to you that you go?”

“Because only I can.” She held her gaze strong, but Jon did not know this side of Sansa. “Is that the only reason?” He said.

“What do you mean?”

“You are only so eager to go, because according to you, only you can be sure that it’s him?”  
“Yes.”

“Nothing else?”

“What do you mean?”  
“I mean I don’t want you to go. And I mean I don’t understand why you are so ready and eager to.”

Sansa was now bewildered, and was starting to lose what he was getting at. “What is it you’re trying to ask me, Jon?”

“Is there any other reason why you are this eager and ready to take a journey for months, just when we’re finally home?”

 

_Oh…_

 

“Jon, it’s not about that. I’m not _leaving_ you; this is about our house.” He did not seem to entirely believe her from the look on his face, and she was slightly flustered by that, but tried to reassure him nonetheless. “I’m not leaving you. Ever.”

“That’s why I think you’re going.”

Now Sansa’s eyes averted his, and searched for something to look at besides the hurt in his eyes.

 

_You’re right…_

 

“And that’s also why I don’t want you to go,” he continued, stepping closer to her. When she backed slightly, legs now against the bed, both knew that what he had said was right. Sansa was now feeling apologetic.

“I…I know the journey will be long. Six weeks if we are fast.”

“More like seven, unless you avoid the Kingsroad, and ride fast every day.”

“You will have Davos. I will attend the council with you tomorrow, before I leave, and I will also talk with Davos myself, before I do.”

“I will miss you,” said Jon.

“And I will miss you equally.”

“Then, please, stay,” Jon said, with the look in his eyes turning from hurt, to pleading.

“I—…I can’t stay, Jon. But I promise I’ll return. And everything will be alright when I do.”

Sansa couldn’t look at him anymore. She’d made up her mind, or tried to tell that to herself. She did not let Jon ask why before she was out of the room. She slept restlessly that night, her mind wandering to someone she would rather not have seen again under any circumstance.

 

~~**~~

 

_Sansa was terrified, as the enormous and gruff Hound escorted her to Cersei’s chamber. Even the sharp, pinching pain inside her abdomen did not account for the screaming in her head. The Hound pushed the door open, and Sansa had no choice but to follow. She was now condemned to be the mother of Joffrey’s children._

_The characteristic smirk on Cersei’s face pursed as she rose to approach her. “No need to say; I’ve already heard the news.” Sansa did not raise her head to look at her. She was petrified, and her stomach was in the bottom of her body. “Thank you, Ser Clegane, you may leave now”, she heard Cersei say tersely._

_As the door closed, Cersei approached her, rather than asking her to come sit with her. “Come, little dove; all new women hear and learn of it when it happens.” She followed Cersei, as she continued, “Your mother might’ve prepared you. You flowered, my dear, no more.”_

_“My mother told me, but I thought it would be different.”_

_“In what way?” Cersei looked at her face, and in her eyes, and Sansa looked at anything and anywhere else. “I thought it would be less…messy.”_

_With that, Cersei chuckled, “Wait until you bear a child,” and motioned for Sansa to sit in the chair in front of Cersei’s bedroom table._

_“You’re a woman now; do you have any idea what that means?”_

_“I’m fit to bear children for the king,” Sansa answered lowly._

_“A prospect that once delighted you,” Cersei said, as a minor acknowledgement of Sansa’s resignation to her fear, but without consoling her. “Bringing little princes and princesses into the world…The greatest honor—for a queen.” Now it was Cersei whose eyes darted, but in insincerity, before looking back to Sansa, who nodded._

_Cersei looked at the dirty state of Sansa’s nightgown, and the sullen, scared look on her face. “…Joffrey’s always been difficult. Even in birth; I labored a day and a half to bring him into this world…you cannot imagine the pain, even now; I screamed so loudly I was sure Robert would hear me in the Kingswood.”_

_“His grace was not with you?”_

_“Robert was hunting. That was his custom.” Cersei turned to the bed. “Whenever my time was near…” she picked up a pelt and turned to Sansa to show. “…my royal husband would flee to the trees, with huntsmen,” she wrapped the pelt around her shoulders, “and his hounds. And when he returned, he would present me with some pelts, or a stag’s head, and I would present him with a baby.” She looked at Sansa, implying a lesson for Sansa to learn. “I never wanted him there, mind you,” Cersei continued, now walking past Sansa. “I had Grandmaester Pycelle, an army of midwives, and I had my brother.” Sansa looked at Cersei, now that her face was not pointed at hers. Cersei seemed to be fond of talking about her brother. “When they told Jaime he wasn’t allowed in the birthing room,” she began to sigh, “he smiled, and asked which one of them proposed to keep him out.”_

_After a pause, Cersei continued, “Joffrey will show you no such devotion.”_

 

~~**~~

 

The next morning, Sansa took her breakfast in bed. She felt awkward speaking with Jon. Nature had given his face a sad rest, but she knew that she had hurt him. Deeply. She had also lain in bed, with her half-brother, and given herself to him. She trusted him, wholly, and with hindsight was shocked at how deeply. He was very different from Ramsay, and from Littlefinger.

 

_Am I? And am I different from her? Oh, father, what would you think?_

 

Hours later, she met with the young woman who had offered to make a dress for Sansa. The seamstress had seen to her requests very well, and had been precise, and intricate. The dress was made of several hues of black; very form-fitting, slim, layered and strapped, but very soft on her still-healing skin, and warm in the winter. It could also accompany her fur direwolf coat, with slips and straps to fasten it. The straps were so numerous and in such an order that only Sansa and this girl would know how to remove it. Two additional layered pads extended from the base of the collarbone area to just past and over the shoulder, like the shoulders on a suit of armor. She looked in the mirror, evaluating herself in the dress, the form-fitting curves, the Stark embroidery on the cloak overlapping the collarbone on the dress, her tenderly self-brushed long red hair falling over the cloak and beneath the curve of her breast, the milk-white base of her neck contrasting completely with the black dress.

 

She ascended the staircase to the master bedroom, and paused. She heard a ruffling of clothes on the other side, before opening the door.

 

They were alone. Again. 

 

They looked at each other, from opposite ends of the room, without approaching or saying anything. Jon had on the cloak that she had sewn for him, and his sheathed sword sat at his hilt, and the enormous milk-white direwolf Ghost at his side.

He was looking at a book, and then he held it up to her, breaking the silence. “I almost forgot about this.” Sansa recognized the book, knowing full well that the title on the cover didn’t contain the real contents. She recognized it, and couldn’t help the side of her lip from forming a smirk and a restrained chuckle.

But they did not carry that conversation. Jon said simply, “How are you?” Seeing her hesitation, he clarified, “Your back.”

“Oh-ohh,” Sansa stuttered, nervously. “It’s better now, I think.”

“Does it still hurt?”

“It hasn’t bothered me today, but thanks for asking.” They approached each other now. “New dress?” Jon noted.

“Yes; it was finished just today.”

“It’s nice; it makes the wolf bit on your cloak stand out. And your hair.” Sansa averted her gaze, but only slightly, and the side of her mouth curved upward. “Thank you.”

They looked at each other with a coyness that neither expected, before Jon broke the awkwardness with a sharp intake of breath, and asking “Are you still going?”

“Yes, that’s actually what I came here to talk about.”

“…alright. I have thought about how to announce this.”

Sansa looked up, and Jon continued, seeing he had her attention. “I can announce it today, at the end of the council. It can be a goodwill mission to the Wall, after their commander left and they lost a lot of men. Especially with the onset of Winter. I can announce it today.”

“Alright. Smart.”

“I will send a small legion of some trusted guards and hunters; three from the Freefolk, and at least three others from the North, including Brienne of Tarth.”

“Thank you—“

“I will also send Ghost.”

“No, Jon, you don’t need to.”

“He will guard you more loyally than any soldier or Wildling; I was told about him sneaking into your bedroom the night before last.”

“It’s a fine gesture, but you need all the defense you can have here. And since he’s the last of his litter, it’s best if he stays here, to guard the house, and have his master guard him in return,” she said, as Ghost nuzzled her side.

“You’re right. I just want you to be safe.”

“I know you do. I will.”

“And, after you come back, will you be alright? Will we?”

“I don’t know Jon…”, she said, but looking at his deep black eyes, now in front of her, her heart fluttered in a way she didn’t expect as she said, “I hope so.”

He then tried to bend her head down to kiss her forehead. At the last moment, she raised her head, and looked into his eyes for a moment, before he kissed her, now on the lips. The kiss was slow, long, lingering, and longing, and broke off even more slowly, and almost painfully. Sansa left the room slowly, and then made her way to the Great Hall, to greet and quiet the throng, and make way for the King in the North.

 

The room had become tense, as the Northern lords were having to swallow not one, but two major changes: girls having to work manually, even possibly be involved in combat, and to swallow the possibility of Wildlings helping to man and defend castles for them. “Looks like we’re the Night’s Watch now”, Tormund leered at Lord Glover.

“If they breach the Wall, the first two castles in their path are Last Hearth and Karhold.”

Lord Glover stood up. “The Umbers and Karstarks both betrayed the North! Their homes should be torn down brick-by-brick and bare to the earth,” he proclaimed.

“And you refused the call when summoned by the house that you fought for and with for centuries,” Lyanna spoke up to him. “You flat-out refused the Starks, in favor of the Boltons. I appreciate your reborn devotion to our King and Queen, Lord Glover; I hope it continues in the face of any and all threats in the future.”

“Castles don’t commit crimes,” Sansa spoke with her diaphragm, to make her voice carry, “nor can be blamed for the blood spilled in them, or by their inhabitants. We are on the brink of two wars, and need every fortress and castle we have; we shall give the castles to families whom we can trust, and who have fought for us.”

When Glover sat down, Jon stood up. “Alys Karstark, Ned Umber, approach.”

The entire hall went quiet, and every murmur stopped. Sansa looked up at him for a moment, then back to the children; Alys Karstark, tall and moderately pretty, with orange hair, and the even younger Ned Umber, who Sansa noted looked younger even than Sweetrobin. She knew that she should not show any face of disloyalty, but she couldn’t help mouthing through cracks of her lips “What are you doing?”.

The children stopped in front of the table where Jon, Sansa, and Davos sat, and Jon began. “For centuries, our families fought side-by-side on the battlefield. Both of your fathers betrayed that oath, and committed acts of the highest treason. I ask you both to pledge your loyalty, once again, to House Stark; to serve as our bannermen, and come to our aid whenever called upon.”

Both children unsheathed their swords, and knelt.

“I am willing to overlook yesterday’s wars and disagreements for the good of the North; I ask that you and your families do the same. Will you stand beside me, and fight under the banner of the wolf, now and always?”

“Now and always,” both said in unison.

“Stand.” The children did so, and sheathed their swords, sitting down to a quiet room; the only noises echoing the hall were their own rustling cloaks, and the cream of their wooden seats.

“Onto the last point,” Sansa said, knowing full well and seeing the tension in the room. “I am paying a visit to the Night’s Watch, and I am leaving today.” Now that they had the room’s attention, Davos spoke up. “Concerning the troubling relations with the queen down south, and the…unprecedented nature of Jon’s leaving the Night’s Watch, we are to ensure good, friendly and cooperative relations with the Night’s Watch, and to inspect and see what they might need. She will need volunteers to accompany and guard her along the way. Trustworthy men who can hunt and fight worth a damn. Who will accompany the lady of Winterfell? We need six volunteers.”

Lyanna was the first. “I will send two men with you.” 

Tormuind then raised his voice, “I can send four men; even after the battle, there are far more of us.”

Littlefinger offered three men of the Knights of the Vale, which Sansa accepted with grace, followed by Lord Glover offering two men.

Before it continued, Sansa stood and said “Thank you; I can see your loyalty and I thank you, but before this goes on you will need to also save and train your men here. I will not take an army for a simple diplomatic mission.”

 

~~**~~

 

“They’re children, Jon, and that’s the first problem,” Sansa said to Jon, trying to contain the scorn in her voice, as she and Jon strode, overlooking the work of the smiths below them.

“Their families are gone, and they didn’t commit any crime, and even so, we and Lyanna are young heads of house.”

“House Mormont is very different from Karstark or Umber, and these children have never had to fight like she or we have. They’re not strong because they’ve never had to be. You should’ve given those castles to families of men who fought for you at the battle for home, and more importantly, to men who are able to think and fight for themselves. You should’ve consulted Davos or me about this.”

“I will, but I am king, Sansa—“

“Should I have a crown made for you? Or should I start saying something in front of another council meeting?”

“You would undermine me in front of the other lords and ladies?”

“I can’t question your decisions at all, then?”

“Yes you can, Sansa, where is this—“

“Joffrey never let anyone question his decisions at all, and he flouted nearly all the advisors he had, do you think he was a good king?”

When Jon stopped, Sansa kept walking for a bit in front, then turned to him, slowly. She made eye contact with Jon, before he retorted, “You think I’m Joffrey?”

At that Sansa looked away for a second, and turned back. “You’re the farthest man from Joffrey I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you.” Now it was Jon’s turn to look away. “I wish you weren’t going.”

Sansa took his arm, saying “You’ll be alright, Jon,” and when he still didn’t look at her, turned his face to hers with her finger.  “You’ll be alright. And so will I.” Jon was finally looking in her eyes, and Sansa said, “You’re good at this, you know.”

“At what?”

“At ruling.” Jon chuckled and looked out again, and she said “You are. You ARE,” smiling a gentle smile at him that she knew he liked. “The men respect you, they admire you sing songs about you. You’re not just a king, you’re a leader of men.” She turned more serious. “And that’s why you have to be smart, Jon. Smarter than all of them, and that means trusting those around you with your intentions and ideas, and you also have to think not just of honor, but of the best things for our house. You know how much I loved father, and Robb, but they made the same stupid mistake, and both lost their heads for it. They trusted too much in the honor of their enemies, and even sometimes in the honor of their friends. You can be honorable but, please, be the smart one too.”

“I thought that was your job,” Jon said, making Sansa chuckle a little. “Listen to and trust Davos while I’m away. And please send me owls for any news that I should hear. I will be back soon, hopefully with Bran.” She hugged him, and he hugged her back, and Sansa whispered in his ear, “I’m sorry. I’ll be back soon.”

 

The eleven men were ready, on their horses, waiting for Sansa. She looked up at the balcony, at Jon and Davos standing there, and then to a small crowd surrounding the entrance gate. “I’ll be back soon,” she spoke up to them. “Trust in your king.” She then mounted the horse. It was her brother’s horse, a tall, black colt. She grabbed hold of the saddle, and climbed up. Once she was securely on the saddle, she turned her face back to Jon. They only looked at each other for a few seconds, but the seconds were long, and silent, and she knew Jon did not want her to leave. His sad eyes said all that he could.

“I will be back,” she said once again, but this time to him, and as he smiled, she waved at him. She then turned and they were off. She was happy to not have seen Littlefinger in the crowd, or anywhere near Jon. She hoped that meant that he would be safe. And so would she.

 

~~**~~

 

As the sun set on the Crossings at the Riverlands, a small, dirty girl, with moderate blood on her, ran out of the Twins gate. There were no guards to stop her; they were all inside, and atop, and she had made sure that they were all dead. She had left no child of House Frey alive, and had taken care of a great many of the guards during dinner with the poison. The rest had been easy for her to needle to death.

She had never killed this many in one sitting, and it added to the rush she had. She did not stop running, and had left the gate open. The people can find out for themselves that all of House Frey is dead.

 

~~**~~

 

Sansa and the band of eleven had made camp. The full moon was now directly over their heads in the sky. Most of the men had gone to sleep, save for two Wildling men, who were taking their turn guarding her for the first night.

 

_They’re free, and bound to no one, but they’re more awake and diligent than most loyal men._

 

She was looking into the fire, wrapped in her fur cloak like the one she had given to Jon, and as she wrapped it even tighter around her, her eyes were becoming heavy.

She heard the men stand, and they shouted “BACK OFF!”, and man grabbed a burning piece from the fire. Sansa up at them. “What is it?”

“It’s a wolf. It’s approaching slowly.”

“What does he look like?”

“I said AWAY!” One of the men threw firewood at it, but she heard the pit pat of a giant wolf’s heavy footsteps, and stood. “Is he white?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t hurt him! He’s from our house,” Sansa turned to the wolf, and she saw it. It was who she suspected.

“I’ll show you.” With that, she grabbed the last piece of meat from that night’s kill, and held it out to him. The giant white direwolf looked at it, sniffed, and bit into it, out of her hand. As Ghost knelt down and ate the food at her feet, she looked down at him. “He isn’t supposed to be here, I told Jon to leave him at home.”

Ghost finished his meal, and looked up at her eyes. “Another guard? Or just another mouth to feed?” She heard a low rumble coming from the back of Ghost’s throat as he stood up, taller than her, and gave her face a big, slobbery lick.

“No more,” she said to the direwolf, and then turned to the Wildlings. “He’s not a danger to any of us. He’s with me.”


End file.
